Back Again
by thewhoreat-221b
Summary: After three years, John goes back to 221B. Everything changes, but everything is still the same again.


Three years, almost three years to the day. That's how long it's been since John saw the man that changed his life fall to the death. He still sees the disoriented image of blood on the pavement, those cold blue eyes that somehow managed to warm for him no drained of light. He remembers grabbing Sherlock's wrist, checking for a pulse. He can't even remember what happened afterwards. He woke up in a hospital bed with a concussion. Mycroft was there.

"He's dead, John. If I were you, I would just forget all about him," he said. Despite that, John didn't.

There was no funeral, Sherlock wouldn't have liked that. The media would have made it a feeding frenzy, "DISGRACED PRIVATE DETECTIVE [insert wild accusation here]" the headlines would have read.

He went to see his therapist for the first time since he met Sherlock. He realized his limp came back, and so did the shaking. He was going to need sleeping pills and his cane again. A new one though, the old one was still at Baker Street. No, he wasn't going to go back there. Too many memories. That didn't bother him the most, what did was the fact that he couldn't say what he really felt to his therapist. The layers were all coming back, so many things he wanted to get out but couldn't find the words anymore. Fuck, he missed Sherlock. So much more than missed.

When he visited the grave, and Mrs. Hudson left him alone with the tombstone of fucking Sherlock Holmes, he couldn't even get the words out there. Nope, just told the tombstone he was a great man. The most human man he'd ever met. That he couldn't believe it was all a lie. No, no he wouldn't have lied like that to him. He still hoped for a miracle, of course, that Sherlock would come out of the shadows with his turned up coat collar and that blue scarf, his hair all tousled by the wind.

That wouldn't happen. No, beyond some lovesick hope, Sherlock Holmes was dead.

In those three intervening years life had moved on, John found a girl that didn't care much for the fact that he had so many layers he was basically wearing a bullet proof vest under two sweaters and a parka. Her name was Mary, and she did quite like John. Thankfully, she knew nothing of his previous life as Sherlock's blogger. The hits on the site slowed considerable in those years, and just like every other internet famous person, he was forgotten. Who remembers the craze of a few months over the Reichenbach Hero anyways? Like any fad, Sherlock Holme's existence in the collective memory of the public faded far, far, back away.

Nobody remembered Sherlock fucking Holmes but those that mattered to him: Lestrade still called once and a while, just to check up, and Mrs. Hudson kept the apartment open and just the way it was when Sherlock left; she cleaned it once and a while though, just to keep the dust and bugs away. It was in memory of him, and just in case John wanted to come back. Mycroft still controlled the shadows, and when the saved up funds from Sherlock's cases ran out, Mycroft got John a job as a GP in a quaint little English town.

Then one day, the day of all days, when John decided for the first time in three years to go back to Baker Street, it all changed.

The street hadn't changed very much, the sun shone brightly through the clouds and sparkled in the puddles of yesterday's shower. It gave the place an eerie light glow, eerie only because the place was marked so sadly in John's mind. It was beautiful in every which way.

Mrs. Hudson was out in the front, cleaning some of the first floor windows when she saw John. Her face light up immediately, the wrinkles no longer just lines on the face of an old woman but her smile brought light to them. She had missed him.

"John!" she called. John hugged her tight, only one-armed because of the cane, trying to hold back tears he realized he never knew were hidden.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm back." The more cheerful he tried to sound, the more it sounded worse.

He used his key to get in, he still had it, and the moment that his foot first stepped inside a wash of emotions overcame him. Everything hit him at once, the smell, the sights, everything. If he closed his eyes he could just pretend that Sherlock was there, playing his violin, performing an experiment, walking around in only a sheet because unless he was going to see people he wasn't going to get dressed. He could hear himself yelling at Sherlock to eat something because he hadn't in a few days because of a case. He could hear Sherlock asking him to get the milk. He could hear Sherlock just babbling to John because he hadn't realized that John had gone out.

He walked upstairs to the main part of the flat, everything was still in place. The skull on the mantlepiece, Sherlock had glued it down one day after Mrs. Hudson had tried to dispose of it again. There was still that blasted board game on the wall, a pocket knife straight through it because Sherlock got angry that the game made no sense. Letters on a table that he still needed to answer, another pocket knife straight through them. Unwashed dishes were still scattered everywhere, the tea cups of Sherlock's favorite tea-set had a line of brown on the inside, the tea having evaporated long ago.

An overwhelming urge to just collapse, his leg suddenly hurt so fucking much and he could barely move because of the shakes. He found one of the chairs exactly where it was left, and he just sunk into it. His breathing was heavy, too heavy, his throat too thick with all the words he never fucking said and didn't say at his last chance because he though that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would come back to him.

And then anger overtook all of those feelings. _Why didn't he come back, he's Sherlock fucking Holmes he would have found a way out.___The thing he was pushing away, that Sherlock had lied? That surfaced again too. What if… no. Sherlock was the best man he ever knew. Sherlock would never have done that, only he could have been clever enough to know everything.

He wanted to punch something, punch something hard and not stop until it bled.

And out of the corner of his eye, he saw it, a shadow, a glimpse of something (someone?) else in the flat. Army instincts kicked it, his brain working faster than every before because it couldn't be Mrs. Hudson, she would have made the point to announce herself. It couldn't have been Sherlock, he was dead. It couldn't have been Moriarty, dead too. One of Moriarty's henchmen? Why after three years? Why after all this time… it didn't matter. This was his chance to let all of this anger flow.

No pain when he jumped up from the chair, no pain when he silently got hold of the man in the shadows. He didn't recognize him. He didn't care. He punched, punched hard, let all of the anger flow and flow into the other man. The other guy was taller, stronger, that didn't matter. John was in Afghanistan, John was with Sherlock Holmes. Nothing could get at him now.

"Who are you!" John demanded as he pulled the other man by the shirt collar up to his face, his voice shocked him with power. He hadn't… not since Sherlock.

He spitted out blood, getting some on John's shirt. Didn't matter, was a cheap shirt. "Seb… Sebastian Moran."

No bells. Didn't matter. Another punch. That one felt better than before.

"Sherlock…" Moran said, and the punching immediately stopped.

"What about Sherlock Holmes?" John's voice no longer surprised him.

"Is alive…" At that, John knocked him out. Swift punch to the head. He would ask Mrs. Hudson to pick up the blood later. God, he was starting to sound like Sherlock.

No. Sherlock Holmes was not alive, Sherlock Holmes was dead. This was… this had to be one of Moriarty's, sent to instill some doubt in John's mind. The same kind of doubt that Moriarty tried to pull on the world and for some strange reason, Sherlock confessed to. John debated calling Mycroft to ask to deal with this, but changed his mind and instead called Lestrade. Lestrade would understand.

"Greg, listen, I have a problem," he said the moment that the call was picked up.

"God John, what is it?" Panicked. Lestrade's voice sounded panicked.

John took a deep breath, he had stopped shaking. That was always nice. "There's a body in 221b, don't worry, he's not dead. I just need some help getting him out."

"Christ John, you're starting to sound like him. I'll be right there. What are you doing back there anyway? You know what. Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

The call hang up and John sat back down on the chair, focussing intently on the unconscious man. If he could remember properly, it would take Lestrade about 10 minutes to get there from his house.

More details of the room began to sink in, books scattered in more places than he could count, headphones on a ram's head and a computer in the corner that hasn't been touched in three years. Eventually, he got restless, the curiosity overtook him, he couldn't figure which one came first and he got up again, starting for the room that once belonged to Sherlock.

It was pristine, just like always. Sherlock was one of those people who kept his room clean by shoving everything out of it and into other rooms. Somehow they got upstairs into John's room. The bed wasn't made though, a white sheet in a crumpled mess overtop a dark blue duvet all over a king-sized bed. It almost seemed like yesterday when John had to shove Sherlock back into it after the Irene incident, he wondered if the sheets still smelled like him.

Before he had a chance to check though, there was a knocking around on the first floor; Lestrade must have arrived. Probably for the better, he wouldn't want to stain the sheets with tears that he knew somehow he would shed.

"John, what did you do?" Lestrade asked, insistent. He looked like he hadn't slept in a few days and he definitely was not wearing the dapper suits he wore three years ago. Mainly because of in the fallout of the whole scandal, Lestrade had lost his job as the one who facilitated this con man in the police department. Rumors had spread like wildfire that he had found Sherlock as a junkie, that he had gotten him off the cocaine and god knows what else. It killed his career and now he was working menial jobs doing whatever he could to make some money.

"I came here to check the old place out, I'm thinking about telling Mrs. Hudson to let somebody else live here. And he showed up, told me that Sherlock is alive. I'm guessing, one of Moriarty's threads, trying to create more of that fantastical lie?"

"We should get him out before he wakes up. Leave him in the alley besides the place, okay?" Lestrade lifted the feet as he spoke and John grabbed the arms. They lifted him together and carried him down the stairs.

Halfway down, a thought crossed John's mind. "Did you ever think that, you know, maybe?"

"Maybe what, John," Lestrade's said rather bluntly.

"That Sherlock is really alive."

Lestrade sighed, they were getting out the door now. "No."

"Why not? I mean, it is Sherlock." The hope that John was still somewhat latching on to when he visited Sherlock's grave three years ago started rising in his throat like bile. He didn't want it, no, it made him sick.

"It _was_ Sherlock, John. You know, I don't even know why I'm helping you. I hate him, that man is the reason why I lost my job, John! He has to have been an exceptional brand of dickish asshole to do this to us."

They deposited the body next to the building, near a pile of garbage and a puddle. A stray rat scuttled by, chased by a rather plump-looking cat.

"John, stop believing in those fantasies. Go back to your life, Sherlock is dead. You saw the grave." With that, Lestrade left, leaving John in that lonely alleyway.

He went back to close the door to the flat, Mrs. Hudson had gone out to get some milk for herself. He would say goodbye to her later, when he got the chance. Oh, and to tell her to clean up the blood and go find some lovely new renters; Throw everything out that was left in the place, he wouldn't be needing it. Lestrade was right, Sherlock was absolutely, 100%, dead.

Home, that's where he needed to go. He had a lovely wife waiting for him, his life was _different_ now, he wasn't going to ever go back to who he was with Sherlock, maybe he wasn't ever meant to be that person. But damn, he missed it. Maybe he was always meant to have a limp and a tremor and maybe he was never meant to feel that kind of… emotion when it came to somebody. Maybe love is that little feeling you get when you simply enjoy somebody's company. Not the intense rush of… whatever. Maybe those writers that wrote about this had the world all wrong.

By the time he got back home, it was almost dark and Mary had gone out to dinner with a few of her friends. He was all alone in their tiny little flat, half the size of 221b but twice the rent, Sherlock really had gotten a good deal on the rent back in the day. And there were thoughts about Sherlock again, crossing his mind. He didn't like them.

He decided he might as well watch some television, rather than sulk around the foyer. The living room was dark, odd, they usually left that one on to make it seem like at least somebody was home. A shadow in a chair, a rather tall shadow sitting with it's back straight and hair all curly.

No.

Sherlock was dead.

"Hello John," it said.

Lies, no. Somebody was playing a cruel joke on him. Motionless, he couldn't feel a thing. John's heart pumped faster than it had when he was shot, it pumped faster than it had when he ran, concussed, to Sherlock's dead side on the pavement. Sherlock had to be dead! He checked Sherlock's pulse then too, there was nothing, his eyes were open and icy and cold and _dead._

The figure moved his arm, pulling a lamp light on.

Cold icy eyes. Fluffy, curly dark, dark hair. Cheekbones so sharp they could cut. Coat collar all up to make him look cool. Thin, impossibly thin almost ghastly, bones sticking in places they shouldn't. Familiar though, it was all familiar. No, no, no, it couldn't be him. It just could. John was too paralyzed to do anything but stutter.

"I needed to go, John," he continued, disregarding John's failed attempt at noise. His voice was as deep as ever, "Moriarty would have had you killed if I didn't jump, there was no other way. I saw you at my grave, John, I just wanted to tell you I was back but I couldn't. You must understand, John, if word leaked out that I was still alive, no matter how far it got out, you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would have been in serious danger. I had to destroy these threats to you. I'm mostly done, I didn't want to come back to you until my case was completed, but Moran showing up put a damper on that plan. You now need to know what was going on, John."

Rage.

Blinding rage. Shockingly, John never thought about what he would feel if Sherlock would come back and show up like this. It didn't even cross his mind, yes, that vain hope that Sherlock would come back, but never what his reaction would be. And this was it. It was rage. All that pent up anger all over again, but this time the soldier didn't take over. He still stood there, clenching his teeth.

"Why did you lie," was all John could choke out.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, cocky little fucking Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "I couldn't have my internet celebrity spread more, I had to make it die. Telling the world I was a fraud was the best root."

"But you didn't tell the world you were a fraud! You told me, Sherlock, you told me." John's fist got tight, fingers digging into his palm and he wanted to punch Sherlock dead center in his face. Irene Adler's words drifted through his head, but he didn't love Sherlock now, he would make sure to damage those perfect cheekbones and that perfect nose.

"But John, did you ever really believe me?" Sherlock, the smug fucking Sherlock. John pounced at him, but instead of grabbing his coat collar in order to keep him still enough to punch properly, something overcame him and he smashed their faces together.

Breathing hard, Sherlock didn't resist, Sherlock kissed back. For one Moriarty called "The Virgin," Sherlock was actually very good at this. Precise, exact, _Sherlock. _And everything he imagine. Not that he did, no, just that rush and that perfection and that feeling that it was all right with teeth and tongue and Sherlock and his scent and everything him. His curly hair under John's fingers and it was all right and perfect.

He broke the kiss and Sherlock rose up, the two of them both managing in getting the other's coat off. Sherlock's body was exactly as he remembered, except bonier. More muscle though, in his arms, he had been working those past three years. And they were kissing again and it was so close to perfect John could almost let out those tears that he had kept hidden for three years.

But it was Sherlock who stopped the kiss this time.

"Not now, John, we still have work to do."

Sherlock Holmes, fucking smug bastard little fucker consulting cockblocker Sherlock Holmes. And, despite all of this. John finally realized the emotion that he was holding on to from three years past.

Oh, and he was totally up for whatever would be thrown at them this time. Let the adventure begin.


End file.
